“So, Wyatt’s thinking about retiring?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. “We’re getting old, Travis.”
“Hell, what are you talking about, girl, I’m only twenty-five, and you can’t be more than twenty-two, I’m guessing?” His warm eyes roam over me with enough curiosity to heat my cheeks, and he flashes a wide boyish grin that could melt the Grinch’s heart.
“You guessed right.” My voice cracks again as I think about my dad gone so young. I never thought I’d mourn a parent in my early twenties. I scowl, trying to hide the pain on my face. “Alright, why don’t you bring your truck around, and we’ll get you loaded up.”
Travis nods, heading out the front door, and I’m ashamed to say I pause, letting my eyes follow his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and tight ass all the way.
Thankfully, I have the walk outside to regain my composure and wipe the drool off my chin. This man is a danger to women. I meet him out back and get to work grabbing feed sacks to throw in the back of his pickup. He hops out, hollering, “Save your back. I can get this loaded.”
“Thank you for your chivalry, Travis, but this is my job.”
“And you’re doing it all alone?” His face crinkles as realization hits him.
“I have a part-time employee and most of my customers help out, so it’s fine.”
“Yeah, but what about all of this?” he asks nodding towards disorderly piles of grain sacks and hay and straw bales. I’m ashamed of the mess I’ve left in the wake of my dad’s death. But there’s only so much one body can do.
I shrug. “The truck drivers usually help with the offloading. But it is what it is.”
He rubs a hand over his tanned face, and I can hear the scratch of his palm against the afternoon stubble on his cheeks and chin. It’s got to be one of the sexiest sounds on this green Earth. “When are your delivery days, Faith?”
I like the way my name sounds on his lips. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I’d like to lend a hand. If you’ll let me?”
I shift from one leg to the other, a pit of shame knotted in my stomach. “I’m sorry, but my margins are really tight right now. I can’t afford another employee.”
“I’m not asking for a job. I’m offering to help. When’s your next delivery day?”
I swallow hard, feeling conflicted. But I can tell by the stubborn look etched on his square face that he’s already made up his mind. The realization lifts a huge weight off my shoulders, and an ear-to-ear grin crosses my face. The first smile I’ve indulged in since my dad’s passing.
Glancing at my watch, I reply, “Anywhere between fifteen and thirty minutes from now.”
“Alright then,” he says, getting back to loading up Wyatt’s truck. The way his back, shoulder, and arm muscles strain and bunch beneath his tight, white shirt makes me hold my breath. I only realize this when he catches me staring, and I let out a sharp exhale. He smiles graciously, but I know he knows.
Clearing my throat, I warn in guilty tones, “This could take a while, you know. Don’t you have to get that order backto your ranch?” If he needs an easy out, I’ve just delivered it, gift-wrapped with a bow.
His eyes sweep over the bags of feed and straw as he shakes his head. “The hens and horses aren’t going to starve before I get back. What are we talking? A couple of hours of work?”
Looking around the yard and thinking about how I’d like things organized but haven’t been able to, I nod. “A couple of hours if you don’t mind helping me straighten up? I feel awful that I can’t pay you, though.”
“No worries, sugar,” he says with a grin and a wink, and I feel my lower stomach tighten.
After he finishes loading the truck, the first delivery arrives, and we dive into our work. Attempting to make conversation while stacking alfalfa bales into neat rows, Travis inquires politely, “What’s your favorite muscle car?”
As any reasonable person would, I reply, “The 1968 Cougar GTE 427.”
Stunned silence settles between us as his eyebrows rise and his mouth hangs open. I guess he’s not used to girls who know their classic cars.
Suddenly, he pretends to keel over on one of the bales, as if my words fatally wounded him. I can’t help but notice the six pack abs peeking out underneath his shirt as he lies there melodramatically for a moment.
Then, he opens one eye, tilting his head up to look at me with another one of his heart-thumping boyish grins. Right then, I recognize trouble has a new name: Travis Cartwright. Polite and handsome with a goofy sense of humor. I can’t think of a more fatal combination.
“Let me guess,” I say drily, “You’re a Chevy man with no room in your heart or your garage for a Mercury Cougar, huh?”
“Not necessarily. I’ll flip anything if I think it’s worth the money. But, yeah, I’m definitely a dyed-in-the-wool Chevy guy.”
“And I’m a Mercury lifer. Is that going to be a problem? If so, you can back out now.”
